Once Were Men

by Marin Landis

  Any nerves he felt had vanished when he heard the cheer that was the response to him entering the room. His people appreciated him and for the short time he had ruled Maresh-Kar he knew that he had done so fairly and that his story was popular. The unpopularity of Sunar had made sure of that more than anything Melvekior himself had done. The people that benefited from the Sunar regime we mostly wealthy merchants and noble families. They knew which side their bread was buttered so they too lauded and cheered for the new Prince. While this was no time to divert attention from Mithras, Povimus had told him so in not a few words, Melvekior knew he should acknowledge the voice of the people.

  He walked slowly, with the requested amount of gravitas and solemnity and dropped to one knee before the altar. He recited the Prayer of Devotion to Mithras. He still felt as fervent as ever. His devotion to Mithras was to an ideal, a lifestyle of protecting the innocent and doing good. He realized at that moment that Mithras had never been real to him, but an abstract whose teachings had driven him to become the man he was and towards the man he wanted to be. Now that he knew and firmly believed the truth about the actual being of that name he still experienced the same zeal and determination to live those ideals. He would still lead his people in the name of Mithras, still live his life as Heiligr and still praise the Sun God. For this he knew was the key to peace and civilization.

  He stood. Earlier than Povimus had expected and he could sense the old man confused, but he ignored the man’s quiet chastisement. Raising his left arm towards the sky, fist clenched, in a victory salute, he slammed his other fist hard into his chest. “For Mithras, For Maresh-Kar!” he shouted.

  If he thought the shouts of encouragement and welcome were loud before, they were as nothing to the reception that followed that unexpected display. He signaled there that his duty was foremost to his God, but also to his people. In the wake of the selfish and unlikeable Sunar, this was honey to the ears of the assembled throng. The wave of adulation that swept through him felt strangely akin to the power of the Aur, the divine might he had previously ascribed to Mithras and that had saved his life more than once.

  He saw briefly, near the back of the crowd, a figure dressed all in blue, a thin figure, with the face of his mother. His skin crawled as he realized that it wasn’t his mother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Machinations

  “I often worry that I feel no attachment to anyone, even myself. My own self seems unreal, fluid.” - Arnkoer

  Arnkoer swore to himself. He hadn’t banked on the noble brat becoming this popular. The crowd loves him. Especially the women. Look at them, swooning and holding their little bottles of perfume and whispering to each other. Not that any of that would make today’s task any more difficult but it would certainly make Alpre’s task of handing over the Principality to Arnkoer a more complex matter. The Church would no doubt get involved and possibly even Melvekior’s family. Something about the intelligence he had gathered was faulty. Melvekior Martelle had no living relatives, but now, from somewhere, his mother was still alive and living in the palace with him. His father, Alpre’s dead warlord, for whom there was a funeral, turned up alive and drinking a few days ago. Mikael was an incredibly formidable person, not one Arnkoer would like to cross swords with. He’d conquered the fearsome mountain barbarians, brokered peace with the magical forest people and was rumored to be unbeatable in combat.

  And here he was planning the death of the man’s only son.

  Unless Alpre opened his mouth there was no danger though. Nobody could pin this on him, in fact he’d look like the hero. His only accomplice was Fodie, the half-sense homeless man he often used for jobs where there was a need for a patsy. If Fodie was killed during the operation, which was a grand possibility, or he was apprehended and questioned, there was no risk or loss to Arnkoer. If he was totally successful, as he had been every time up until now, all it cost the Spymaster was a few cobbits and a bottle of wine. There were few like Fodie in Maresh-Kar; the rich and powerful had no desire to look upon such people. When children were born with defects, they were often strangled at birth or not fed. Elsewhere, when parents had a sense of mercy they were given to the church, but not so here. The presence of religion was frowned on by Sunar and while not outright forbidden, institutions devoted to the Gods were taxed heavily and offered no protection. Missionaries were not allowed and charity scorned. The poor were confined to small camps outside of the city and allowed in during daylight hours for the most basic of work that nobody else would do. Such was the case with Fodie. His role was that of a sewer-keeper, a fancy name for a shit unblocker. Well crafted and well hidden though they were, the pipes that carried the effluence of the wealthy still needed maintaining and even the most lowly servant in Maresh-Kar deemed him or herself above such a filthy job. When the shitways stalled, men like Fodie, with brute strength and little else going for them were paid the most minor wage to clear them. Sewer-keepers were consequently avoided more so than any other due to their constant stench.

  The night before the second coronation he had commanded Fodie to lay in a bathtub full of frankincense. Not only to disguise the smell of human waste that followed him alongside a virtual swarm of minute black flies, but also to make him fit in more in the palace which would no doubt be inundated with the stuff. He hated it personally, as much as he hated churches and priests and handsome princes, but the reward would be worth it.

  It bloody better be, he thought ruefully as he squatted behind the curtain which disguised the servant’s entrance for which he’d paid ten full crowns to access. For four hours he and Fodie has hidden here, waiting for the right moment. Not all of Melvekior’s employees felt the same fondness for the young knight that the general populace pretended and some of them were willing to express that dislike in treachery. One fellow in particular, unhappy with the way the Prince’s mother had chastised him after some small slight, decided that the best way to get his revenge was to betray the Prince in return for half an hour with the mother after the Prince was dead. Arnkoer had no intention of honoring that deal. The man was a snake and would be safely ensconced in a cell within a day of Melvekior’s demise, complicit in the assassination. He even had ready some forged letters between the servant and a mysterious cadre of Sunar supporters in Amaranth, who had been plotting today’s events for some time. None of them had of course, but it was a simple method of doing away with some competitors and a woman who had rebuffed him recently.

  Fodie’s plan was simple. Run through the curtain when the rite of coronation was in full swing and chop off Melvekior’s head. With such prodigious strength as was possessed by Fodie even a glancing blow would seriously damage the Prince. Of course, this was merely a diversion. Arnkoer had with him a tube of some light wood, fashioned by the Fovelish Gnomes, that would shoot a dart with a terrific accuracy. The dart in question was coated with an extremely virulent poison, purchased at a price he didn’t want to think about from a source in Fallset. The adherents of the Death Goddess, while all completely insane, had many uses. He feigned awe at Her Infernal Majesty, but actually held Her in the same low regard he held all females. Arnkoer loved nobody, respected nobody and often fantasized about going on mass killing sprees. He sometimes thought himself as crazy as Ain-Ordra’s lot but laughed it off as the last remnants of a conscience. He’d practiced with the tube for weeks now and could impale a fly at twenty feet. Shooting Melvekior in the neck from thirty would be child’s play. His only concern was if the knight, as was often the case, wore armor, but that wasn’t likely in such a circumstance and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his target step into the hall. No armor, not even full ceremonial regalia. His neck on full display.

  He gripped onto Fodie’s calf as the lumbering half-wit stood behind him. “Not long now, friend,” he whispered.

  In fact it would be quite some wait. He’d spent some time between planning and practicing his dart blowing researching Mithraic ceremonies and this one looked as though it woul
d take a good couple of hours. About forty minutes in, a protracted period of prayer would mean that the assembled congregation would bow their stupid heads and close their eyes long enough for Fodie to burst from his hiding place, yell “Sunar!” and start chopping.

  Arnkoer was becoming excited. He loved it when a plan came together.

  He didn’t expect to hear the words, “Who are those arseholes? And what is that atrocious smell?” in a high pitched, almost whiny, voice from behind him. Nor had he planned on being roughly gathered up by more hands than he could count while Fodie looked on with a demented grin on his face.

  “Well, who are you and why is Fodie here with you?” Galtian was furious. He’d paid Umris good money to secure this entrance to Sunar’s hall and now it looked like he had another name to add to his shit list. The bitter little half-gnome stood, trying his utmost to look intimidating and failing almost comically. Unfortunately for the man laying face first on the floor, hands tied behind his back, gagged, with a fresh black eye and a fat lip, he was more than intimidating enough.

  Galtian beckoned with his hand and Mugs, one of his gang, handed him the pouch that they had confiscated from the incredibly average man they had found peeking through a slit in the curtain. Fodie wasn't any help, nor did Galtian expect him to be. Shit-sweepers weren't known for their communicative natures and besides, this particular one was soft in the head.

  The pouch was of soft leather, well stitched and presumably dyed the fawn color it now was. He opened it and looked inside. "Hmph, what's this?" he said aloud. He gingerly reached in and pulled out what he thought at first was some sort of musical instrument. He noticed another, smaller, pouch within and took that out too. This caused some commotion as the man on the floor thrashed and moaned at the same instant he revealed its contents. It was a small dart. Galtian was canny enough to handle it only by the non-business end.

  He kneeled down and held the point at the eye of the prone man. He stopped thrashing at this point, but the moans became even louder, panic evident in his face.

  "Poison eh?" Galtian stood. "And Fodie with a bloody great tree chopper. Planning to kill someone were you, and use the dumbass here as your cover? I'm going to remove your gag, but if you shout or say anything I don't like very much, I'll stick this dart straight into your arse and well, I don't know what will happen next, but you know."

  Mugs stepped forward with and clumsily cut the gag from around Arnkoer's head, gouging a chunk of flesh from the back of his neck in the process.

  "You fucking ungainly oaf!" spat Arnkoer, momentarily forgetting himself. Galtian merely smiled. Mugs didn't know what to do, accustomed to taking instruction from Galtian.

  "Careful now, assassin, Mugs doesn't mean any harm. Unlike you. What's your business here?" He had guessed already that Melvekior was the target but wanted to be sure how far he could trust this man before possibly leaving another corpse to be found.

  There was a pause of about thirty seconds before Arnkoer answered. "You don't sound like you're here for the festivities yourself and I am at your mercy, so I'll be honest."

  "Let's hear it then," sneered Galtian.

  "The Prince yar, he was rude to Fodie some days ago you know, and I been waitin' to pay him back. The lad just wants to earn a crust. He don't need that sorta thing, poor'un he is."

  Galtian stepped back briefly and swung his leg in a vicious kick into Arnkoer's ribs. The air rushed out of the bound Spymaster in an explosive grunt.

  "Your accent is good, but you obviously don't know who I am. You may have heard of Shiv?"

  The strangled noise that came from Arnkoer sounded enough like a "yes" to satisfy Galtian who got down on his haunches close to his downed captive's face. "Listen really closely you sack of shit. Tell me exactly what you're doing here or by all the God's that don't exist I'll put this needle in your eye and throw you through this curtain and leave you to the mercies of the Prince's guards."

  "All right, enough." Arnkoer coughed. "I'm here for the Prince, that much is true. He's ruined my trade. I'm in the business of legitimate buying and selling but the Prince demands that we supply proof that we own what we sell in Maresh-Kar and who in the Hells can do that?" His accent was more refined now, on the upper edge of uneducated. "I'm taking care of business like I always do," he murmured under his breath.

  That sounded more plausible to Galtian. Melvekior had made more enemies than just him it seemed. He rolled the dart in between his fingers. "Will this do the trick then?"

  "Yes, most definitely and please, be more careful with it." The panic was evident in Arnkoer's voice.

  Galtian laughed. "You merchants are all the same. Scared and witless. However, this is your lucky day. I'm going to let you carry on with your plan, but I'm going to provide you with an added incentive. Kill the Prince and I'll let you be on your way. Fail to kill the Prince, I'll kill you and kill the Prince in the bargain and take the credit for trying to save his life. How does that sound?"

  Arnkoer had another coughing fit, accompanied by more of Galtian's laughter. He was enjoying this.

  "I'll not fail. I'll need that dart and the tube, some space and Fodie not to be distracted." He wiggled his fingers. "And of course, my freedom."

  "Remember, merchant, there are ten of us and one of you. The shitscraper won't raise a hand against us either.”

  Galtian nodded to Mugs who untied the knots with the ease of a man who had spent years at sea. There was harsh laughter as Arnkoer tried to lever himself up with hands restricted of blood flow for some time.

  "I won't forget, Shiv," the Spymaster responded. If Galtian noticed any threat there he didn't show it. "What is your business here anyway?"

  "Never you mind. We have distractions of our own which might well be your safety net if your little plan goes tits up. And trust me, you'll notice them."

  Arnkoer didn't respond. He shuffled over to the curtain and put his eye to a slit in the curtain.

  "There's still time. If I'm correct, the silent prayer will begin shortly. That is when I will take action. I'll need silence from your people," he said, scowling at the group of ruffians in the room sized gap between the curtains and the doorway open doorway, behind which was a passageway.

  It was one of those corridors that the nobles would never see, its access points cleverly hidden to provide servants a way around the palace without interfering with the comings and goings of their employers. Consequently it was perfect for Galtian's gang, the Nabbers, to hide out until their compatriots without the palace set the animals free and started bloody havoc.

  When considering his plan for revenge on Melvekior, Galtian had come to the conclusion that he would wait for some very public event and then unleash chaos. This religious coronation was perfect for his needs and he intended to make full use of it.

  Driving a score of pigs twenty miles, transporting as many poisonous, but not fatally so, snakes and collecting the pig dung as they went formed part of his plan and made him giggle with glee every time he thought of it.

  This wasn't just payback for Melvekior, but for everyone who ever overlooked him for his low birth or treated him badly due to his appearance or rejected him for a mixture of both. He hadn't really thought far enough ahead to imagine how he would kill Melvekior, but knew that he'd send the animals in and the children with buckets of shit and piss to fling about at guests of the coronation. He had imagined there would be plenty of opportunity to stick a knife into the pompous prince, but then he ran into this merchant who was going to take the fall quite nicely.

  This was turning into one of the best days he could remember.

  "Don't you worry, friend merchant, we won't ruin your little surprise." Galtian grinned maniacally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The New Prince

  “Ascension? Nay, leave it as a bad job. Easy to say when yer immortal I suppose.” - Mikael

  Melvekior was panicking. He'd seen Bhav and he feared it wasn't really her. Sehar had returned, but why now? D
oes that mean she knows about Mikael and all of their suspicions and beliefs? Something occurred to him at that moment. Povimus. That's why he had been acting in that strange manner. He hadn't seen Bhav recently, she could have been infested by Sehar days ago and he wouldn't have known. Which would explain why he hadn't seen her. Dammit! It was so obvious. Sehar may well have told Povimus about Mikael and that he was back and in contact with Melvekior. Heretics weren't respected in the church and were often shunned. Was this worse? Was this a trap?

  Outwardly he was calm, invoking Kehan to slow his breathing and heart rate and at the same time heighten his awareness. He was furious that he allowed himself to be caught without a weapon, but why would he have suspected that anything was wrong. If you had thought about your situation for more than thirty seconds you would have figured it out. He could almost hear Aeldryn's voice intoning those very words. No use complaining now, this might be a perfectly benign situation, just be careful and aware. He let his body follow the instructions he had been given by Povimus and let his mind sit in a state of awareness, screening the crowd for danger.

  He could no longer see his mother, or the body of his mother, but something else struck him as odd as he looked around the room. There were no other priests, save Povimus present. There was no way that any would miss this ritual. The acolytes would find this an intriguing and educational experience and yet none were here. He hadn’t expected any of his brothers from the monastery, if they even had been told about the occasion, but the absence of any of the clergy save the presiding priest was unusual enough to confirm to him that Povimus expected something to happen. Something that wouldn’t harm him, but might harm bystanders.